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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763877">Ash Garden</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/avid_author_activist/pseuds/avid_author_activist'>avid_author_activist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Queen Series - Victoria Aveyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, M/M, i am so so sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:55:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/avid_author_activist/pseuds/avid_author_activist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"WE DESTROY, BUT WE ALSO REBUILD."</p><p>It has been five years since the Nortan Civil War, but not all is well. The Dancing War, fought between the Silver kingdoms of Piedmont and the Lakelands and the newborn Nortan States and Montfort, is barely over. The Silver Secession is on the move, and this time, they've made a bold play—with potentially fatal consequences.</p><p>Evangeline Samos has made a new life for herself in Montfort, but as she soon realizes, she can't run from her past—or her pain—forever. She has to make a choice: to let her emotions control her, or to rise above them once and for all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dane Davidson/Carmadon, Elane Haven/Evangeline Samos, Evangeline Samos &amp; Ptolemus Samos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I scuff my boots against the rocky ground, bored out of my damn mind. My assignment this week must be one of the most pointless in border patrol history. This sector is of no importance whatsoever, a lonely stretch of granite and pine trees. But due to its proximity to Davidson’s estate, it has to be patrolled.</p><p>The day is overcast but chilly, and I huddle in my thin uniform. Gray clouds scud the light sky. Fall is bearing down on Montfort: according to Carmadon, we have about two weeks before the first snows hit Ascendant. </p><p>My ability forms a protective shield around me, searching for the steel of raider weapons. As usual, there is nothing. The Prairie raids have slowed since Montfort troops withdrew from the Dancing War and border security tightened. But I haven’t lived this long—twenty-five years, now—by being complacent.</p><p>The edge of the cliff looms before me: six inches of granite are all that stand between me and the hundred foot drop. I peer over the edge anyway, a cursory glance to check for raiders, who have been known to scale the cliffs. None. <em> Obviously </em>. I straighten up again and pace back towards the Hawkway, the road that runs from Ascendant in the mountains all the way down to the plains.</p><p>I switch on my wireless, a broadcaster that taps into the same signal as the other patrol units. “Sector E-1 is clear.” </p><p>Static. I wait for the standard response from the rest of my unit, but nothing comes.</p><p>“I repeat, Sector E-1 is clear.” My voice rings out in the silence, echoing off the mountainsides and into the wilderness.</p><p>Still nothing.  I switch the wireless off and then on again. No change. The device feels the same as ever, even to my ability: all the inner workings are fine, so it isn’t a mechanical issue. </p><p>A sense of unease rises inside me. In my five years on border patrol, I’ve never lost connection like this. Something is wrong. </p><p>There’s another, smaller, wireless hanging from my belt. A direct line to Elane and the Premier’s office. She made me take it in case of an emergency. I switch it on, just in case.</p><p>Her voice comes through the other end immediately. “Eve? Is everything alright?” There are other sounds in the background: shuffling paper and people talking in lowered voices. I’m guessing she’s sitting in one of Davidson’s meetings.</p><p>“I’ve lost contact with everyone else in my unit,” I say. Even as I talk, my eyes scan back and forth along the tree line, watching for potential danger. There’s no sign of metal, no sign of movement. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone waiting, just out of sight. “I’m keeping this line open just in case. Is that alright?”</p><p>“Yeah. Stay safe. I love you.” </p><p>“Love you too.”</p><p>I hook the wireless back onto my belt and continue pacing, but farther away from the ledge. If I have to fight, I’d rather not do it backed against a cliff.</p><p>A minute passes. Then five, then ten. I’m about to call it a false alarm when I hear a sound like muted thunder in the distance.</p><p>Then it draws closer, and I realize it isn’t thundering. </p><p>It’s hoofbeats. </p><p>~~~</p><p>“Love you too.”</p><p>I smile briefly at Eve’s voice on the other end before setting the device on the table. On my right, Lyrisa glances at me, a question in her eyes.</p><p>“Everything’s fine,” I say, even as worry snakes its way through my heart. “Apologies for the disruption.”</p><p>“Nothing to worry about, Elane,” Davidson says from across the table. “If you need to be excused, or anything else at all, let me know.” His expression is worried, tense. I used to think the premier was immovable, his restraint unbreakable. After five years, I know better—he can be read like anyone else, if you know him well enough. </p><p>The others—Davidson’s closest aides and various Scarlet Guard officials—shoot me worried glances. “It’s going to be okay,” I reassure them. “Really. We should continue.” </p><p>It feels like I’m lying through my teeth. My mind is consumed by Eve, my <em> fiancée </em>, on patrol. Sworn to protect us all, even at the cost of her own life. But I have my own job to do—our weekly intel meetings are preciously short—and I won’t let my emotions get in the way. </p><p>“Back to the situation in the Lakelands, then,” Ada Wallace says after a second. “One of their nobles made contact with the Silver Secession last week.” She’s the only person in the room without a notebook or files of any sort—naturally, she doesn’t need them. Sometimes, I envy her ability. Paperwork is a nightmare.</p><p>“Lord Cassius Merin,” Davidson says, consulting his own papers. “What do we know about him?” </p><p>“He’s a cousin to Jidansa Merin,” Lyrisa says. “Very close to the Cygnet royal family. I believe I met him once.” </p><p>Ada frowns, and I can practically see the gears whirring in her mind. “The royal family and court are still in turmoil following Cenra’s abdication last month. If Merin contacted the Secessionists on their orders…”</p><p>I shudder. The Nortan Silver Secession are violent blood supremacists and bigots, intent on restoring Silver rule through any means possible. If the Lakelands back their play, that could be very bad for us. “An alliance between them could be strong enough to stabilize the Lakelands and threaten the Nortan States,” I say. “Especially after the Dancing War.” This has always been the endgame for them—restore the Nortan monarchy, fix the thrones that Cal and Eve broke. </p><p>“Potentially,” Ada says. “But I don’t see who they could possibly put on the throne. Maven is long dead. Cal is not a viable–”</p><p>Suddenly I feel the wireless vibrating against the table. I put it to my ear, my heart pounding like a kettle drum. “Eve? Eve, are you there?”</p><p>Her voice is nearly unintelligible, punctuated by crackling static. “There’s—trouble—raid—E1–” A high-pitched whine splits the air, and I jolt in my seat, dropping the device to the table with a clatter. </p><p>When I raise it to my ear again, there is nothing but static.</p><p><em> Trouble, </em> she said. <em> A raid.  </em></p><p>The blood drains from my face. The room has fallen silent, every eye fixed on me. “She needs help,” I say hoarsely. “Evangeline’s in danger.”</p><p>Lyrisa grabs my arm, her grip bruising and viselike. “I’ll go help her. I can get to Sector E1 in five minutes if I take a cycle up the Hawkway.”</p><p>“You can’t–”</p><p>“Watch me. Whoever tried to hurt Evie, I’ll kick their <em> ass </em>–”</p><p>“No—Elane is correct. You are too valuable.” Davidson’s voice cuts through the rising clamor like a knife. “A Piedmont princess, the former betrothed of Orrian Cygnet? You cannot let yourself be captured.”</p><p>She doesn’t back down. “There’s only one cycle—we can send one person. I’m the only fighter here. It makes <em> sense </em>for me to go.”</p><p>“You will not be going,” the premier says. “That is final.” </p><p>I turn to him, desperate. “Evangeline needs help. She might be injured, or—” Bile rises in my throat. Eve isn’t <em> dead</em>. She can’t be dead. I can’t imagine a world without her in it.</p><p>“Enough,” Davidson says. His voice is deadly calm, but his eyes burn with gold fire as he stands from the table. “<em> I </em> will go.”</p><p>“So Lyrisa is too valuable, but the premier of this country is not?” Carmadon appears suddenly in the doorway of the library, and I wonder how long he’s been eavesdropping outside. His face is as hard as I’ve ever seen it, cut with lines of anxiety. “Dane, please—”</p><p>“I will go,” Davidson repeats firmly. “My life should hold no greater value than those of my officers. Premiers can...” He hesitates, and I can see through his composure to the person he is underneath: shaken but determined. </p><p>“They can be replaced,” he says at last.</p><p>His husband closes his eyes, as if he’s willing the words away. “No. They can’t. <em> You </em> can’t.” </p><p>“Every second I spend here is a second Evangeline could be in greater danger. If anything’s happened to her…” His voice darkens, and I realize Dane Davidson would be a formidable enemy on the battlefield indeed. I pity whoever tries to cross him. </p><p>“Then let me go with you,” Carmadon says suddenly. His voice is afraid, but he does not back down. “I can—”</p><p>“You can stay here, in case something happens to me,” Davidson interrupts. He steps through the doorway, and the look he exchanges with his husband is so private that I drop my gaze. “I cannot fight knowing you are in danger as well, Carm. I cannot afford distractions.”</p><p>I am suddenly reminded of Evangeline before she went to defend the walls of Corvium. She had begged me to remain safely at the Ridge House. <em> You would only distract me, </em>she’d said. So reluctantly, I had stayed. </p><p>She and Davidson are so similar. Destined for greatness, destined to fight a dozen wars and emerge victorious. Theirs is a flame that will never stop burning. </p><p>And Carmadon and I? We are similar as well. We tend the hearth, feed the fire, ensure the blaze doesn’t consume itself. We are content to stand in the shadow of greatness, strong enough to let our loves go again and again to the jaws of mortal danger.</p><p>Davidson presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Trust that I will come home to you. But if I cannot? Have strength, my dear Carmadon. Have strength.” </p><p>The door swings shut as he leaves, and I pray that I have not sent him to his death. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The words leave me in a jumble, trying to push from my mouth before the enemy arrives. Trying to call for aid before I am utterly trapped. “Elane, there’s an active raid. I’m in trouble: Sector E-1. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please–</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground itself shakes with the force of drumming hooves as figures burst from the treeline, surrounding me in seconds. I don’t get much further before a gust of wind rips the wireless broadcaster from my fingers and sends it flying over the ledge behind me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Windweaver. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I’m well and truly on my own. I pray that the raiders hadn’t interfered with the second broadcaster, that Elane heard me and sent aid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If not, I could die here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I count a dozen other raiders, each sitting astride a wall of shaggy fur and horns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bison. </span>
  </em>
  <span>From experience, I know that they can sustain over a dozen bullets before going down. The animals’ eyes are flat and glassy, a sure sign they’re under the control of a Silver animos. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You weren’t broadcasting for aid, I hope?” the lead raider asks coolly. Her nose and mouth are covered with a black bandana; above it, her eyes are hard and unforgiving. I reach out with my ability, scanning her up and down. She carries two pistols with eight rounds each, bright copper and heavy tungsten; her belt buckle is silver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I weigh my options, wondering how many enemies I could cut down before the bison trample me into the earth. The odds are not good, so I start talking. “No help is coming for me, I’m afraid. I seem to have been cut off from my unit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The raider shrugs. “I apologize—we may have interfered slightly with your broadcasting capabilities. It wouldn’t have been ideal for newblood freaks to rush us from all sides as soon as we got close to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As soon as we got close to you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Any lingering hope I had of this being a random attack vanishes. They targeted me specifically, but why? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I choose my next words carefully. The voice I use belongs to a lost princess from a lost court, but it serves me well here. “Why waste thirteen seasoned raiders on one patrol officer? You must think quite highly of me. Either that, or you aren’t sure of your own abilities in the slightest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I talk, I study the raiders, trying to pick out the details that might save my life. Why are they here? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who </span>
  </em>
  <span>are they? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each of them wears a black bandana covering their noses and mouths. Their eyes are all hard and cold, veined with gray. Their clothes seem relatively new, a far cry from the mismatched rags that raiders usually wear. I spot an emblem of some sort—a shield emblazoned with a silver stripe—and it looks disgustingly familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach drops as I realize what it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Nortan Silver Secession is here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the raiders slides off her mount, moving with a liquid, easy grace. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Silk. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Why waste thirteen raiders on one person? Well, that would be very simple,” she says, talking like she would to a child. “We do indeed think a great deal of you, Your Majesty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops before me and sinks to one knee. It feels like a mockery, and it may very well be. “Lady Evangeline Samos. Daughter of Royal House Samos and House Viper. Betrothed of not one but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span> Calore kings. Former Queen of the Rift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My legs go weak at her words. They call me back to an old life, titles won in a country that no longer exists. What game are the Secessionists playing now? “I am no longer any of those things,” I manage. “What do you want with me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silk tuts as she rises and approaches me, swaying almost hypnotically in my vision. Something in her face reminds me of Sonya and her family. They’re probably related, after all. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I am no longer any of those things</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she mocks. “I see our poor queen has been brainwashed by the Montfort bastards. I hear you have renounced all titles and family ties, my dear. That you walk as equals with Red rats in the streets. That you take a </span>
  <em>
    <span>girl </span>
  </em>
  <span>to your bed each night—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough!” I snap, sounding braver than I feel. Her words struck deep, an unwelcome reminder that I am the antithesis of all I was born to be. “Cut the bullshit. What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is unperturbed. “Why, we want to restore you to your throne, Your Majesty. To crown you queen of all of Norta. Second to no other. And, if you so wish—” She leers, and I can see the disdain in her eyes—“the Lady Haven shall be named your princess consort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words release an old yearning inside me, a longing for power and for freedom. It tears through my insides before I can control it, and the greed has to show on my face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, little magnetron,” the silk coos. “You need not resist. Blood need not be shed. And before the week is out, you will have a throne and a crown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is offering me what I was raised to want. I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>born </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be the queen of Norta. Such a deep-seated desire does not simply disappear. I feel my old ambitions surge to life, a roaring tide inside my head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know now that what the silk offers is not true. To wear a crown is to lose your freedom of choice. Power given can be just as easily taken away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And here in Montfort, with its too-close sky and sheer granite cliffs, roaring whitewater falls and dark green pines, I have everything I want. Ptolemus and Wren are here. I am free to love Elane, to marry her, and to grow old and die with her. I do not need a throne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> is to get out of here alive. I need to stall for more time and hope that backup is on its way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A crown and a country,” I say slowly. Every word is an extra second I’m alive. My mind searches frantically for an escape route and comes up empty. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, Elane. I need you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Now, that’s a hard offer to beat, Lady…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tana Iral, Your Majesty.” So she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> related to Sonya, maybe a cousin or aunt. Her eyes gleam with barely-suppressed excitement, watching me as a cat watches its prey. As my mother’s wolves used to watch me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I briefly wonder what will become of me if they have their way. They could make me their puppet, controlled in every action by a Merandus whisper. The thought terrifies me like no other. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keep talking. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s all I can do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But… enlighten me,” I continue, forcing the fear away. “There is already a stable government in place in Norta. Democracy. Equality of blood. You speak of a waiting crown, but I see no throne.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tana laughs, showing even white teeth. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your Majesty. A government led by Reds and their allies is no government at all. They cannot hope to stand against us for long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach twists even tighter. “You propose civil war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A restoration of the throne to its rightful owner.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Countless lives will be lost,” I say slowly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Silver </span>
  </em>
  <span>lives. Valuable blood.” I try to fall into my expected role: a blood supremacist, a Silver lady. It isn’t difficult—after all, it’s who I used to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another one of the raiders shifts impatiently. “Those Silvers forfeited their lives when they betrayed their people. We have no qualms about clearing them out of the way. Will you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your Majesty</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” His words carry a thinly veiled threat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re getting tired of stalling. My time is almost up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what I would’ve done if left to my own devices, but suddenly, several things happen all at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tires screech on asphalt as a cycle roars down the Hawkway. Someone dismounts and runs towards me, and a glowing blue shield erupts across my vision. My heart jumps in my chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Davidson. Elane came through.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>I scan the Hawkway for more reinforcements, but there are none. The premier’s the only person I’ve got, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have here except Tolly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The raiders overcome their surprise and attack. I feel exactly six guns fire at once, and without blinking, I stop the bullets in midair and throw them back. Two of them cut through flesh, and the rest go sailing into the woods, missing the raiders entirely. I grit my teeth—I’m out of practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gale-force wind picks up. I stagger and lose my balance, and it throws me to the ground. My ribs slam into the dirt, knocking the wind from my chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air itself turns into a vacuum, sucking the breath from my lungs as I scrabble uselessly for purchase. I try to shout as I’m flung towards the edge of the cliff, but my own breath chokes me, forcing the sound back down my throat. Stars swim across my vision, bright spots of color that almost hurt my eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The windstorm is cut off as suddenly as it began. The sounds and sensations of battle abruptly disappear as a dome materializes around me and the premier, blue as a robin’s egg and nearly an inch thick on all sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still on the ground, I cough and gasp for air, stunned by both the impact and the sudden silence. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and every breath is unnaturally loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you stand?” Davidson bends over me, his eyes alight with concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I grasp his offered hand and gingerly pull myself up. Nothing seems broken—I can already feel the bruises spreading, but I’ve definitely had a lot worse. “Thanks for the save. You’ve clearly been practicing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles at that. “Even old dogs can learn new tricks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suddenly lose my balance again, catching myself on his arm. At first, I think my brain hasn’t reoriented itself properly, but then I realize it isn’t me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground is trembling again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look up in time to see the bison charging us, a moving wall of pure muscle. A mountain of shaggy fur slams into the shield, inches from my face, with enough force to knock down a small house. The dome shakes under the impact. Despite myself, I flinch back, nearly colliding with Davidson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An awful </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch</span>
  </em>
  <span> filters through the muffling effects of the shield</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>One of the animals collapses sideways, its neck bent at the wrong angle. The others begin to sway uncertainly, stamping at the ground, but their eyes go flat as the animos reasserts control. They shake their heads, stunned, and charge us again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dome flickers, growing weaker with each impact, each passing second. It’s incredibly disorienting, like the entire world is underwater, distorted. Everything is blurry except for Davidson at my side. The ground shakes, my vision flashes blue, and the drumming of hooves rumbles in my ears like thunder. I want to curl into a ball on the ground and put my head between my knees until it’s over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, I put a hand on Davidson’s shoulder. It trembles with strain, nearly in time with the flickering shield. “Don’t give out on me,” I say, trying to bolster us both. “I’d like to get out of this alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes meet mine for the briefest second, the only acknowledgement he can manage. I can’t begin to fathom the amount of willpower it takes to maintain that dome. He doesn’t look it, but the premier might be the strongest Ardent I’ve ever met—and I’ve fought the lightning girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My legs brace automatically as another charge begins. I can feel the vibrations in the iron soles of my boots, like standing on top of a rattling transport. Next to me, Davidson grits his teeth. His stare is so intense I can feel it, even though it’s not leveled at me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much longer can you last?” I ask, and my voice echoes around the tiny space.</span>
</p><p> <span>He only shakes his head, the smallest of movements. We don’t have long at all.</span></p><p>
  <span>The Nortans prowl around the edges of our bubble. They don’t waste energy attacking—they don’t have to. All they have to do is wait for Davidson to give out, and they’ll have us outnumbered eleven to two.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who has the advantage? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lord Arven’s voice echoes bitterly through my brain. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> question has an easy answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hard part is neutralizing the advantage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to kill the animos,” I realize suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Briefly, I wonder if their animos is family. One of my mother’s Viper cousins, here to drag me back to Norta at long last. I can only think of a few nobles who could control half a herd of bison for this long.  “Which one of them do you think–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with the bandana, even through the uncertain light cast by the dome, her face is familiar. We have the same eyes, after all—Viper eyes—but hers are brown to my gray.  There’s no mistaking it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Atara,” I whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In another life, we were friends and allies—</span>
  <em>
    <span>cousins</span>
  </em>
  <span>—at court. She helped organize my birthday gala when we were fifteen. I cheered her Queenstrial, even though I knew she didn’t stand a chance. She was my mother’s favorite niece. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Davidson seems to realize. “I’m… sorry,” he says. “If—if there were another way…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The strain in his voice surprises me—the premier isn’t one to display exhaustion. We’re out of time. This isn’t the place for doubt, or morals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There isn’t,” I say flatly. “She’s chosen her side. I’ve chosen mine. Drop the shield on ten.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The premier nods, unable to manage words. A sheen of sweat coats his brow. I slide a steel ring off my right hand, forming it into a bullet with a burst of willpower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blue shield disappears. Sound and color rush back to the world, but I barely notice. My vision tunnels until all I see is Atara’s black-clad figure. I take a deep breath and let the projectile fly, and like an extension of my own arm, I feel its trajectory across the clearing. I feel the miniature crosswinds as it slices through the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel it puncture fabric, flesh, and bone, in that order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atara crumples to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The bison, freed from Atara’s control, whip around in wild fear. They charge blindly, knocking raiders aside like bowling pins. I see a blur of black as Tana evades one with lethal grace. She ducks to the left and spins around again, pulling the trigger and taking the beast in the heart. It collapses, a two thousand pound deadweight, and I can practically feel the ground shudder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>protected species,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Davidson gripes under his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the circumstances, I smile. “Given that they’re trying to kill </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” Someone raises a gun, and I make a fist, squeezing his weapon into a crumpled ball—“I don’t think they give two shits about bison.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a point,” he concedes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A raider takes advantage of our brief distraction to attack. Davidson reacts before I do,  tossing a shield in front of himself like a grenade in a blinding flash of blue light. She slams into it with a sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He staggers back a pace from the effort, and I move to catch him. “Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Davidson throws out his hands. A flickering glow appears between them before blinking out again. “Ability exhaustion. I’m out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can cover us,” I say, widening my focus. Every bit of metal in the vicinity sings in my perception. My ability envelopes us like a protective bubble, sending enemy bullets flying back towards their owners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles grimly and draws a gun from his belt. “In that case, we’re about to see how good of a shot I still am.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We wreck havoc together, covering each other as we push forward. The premier’s aim is steady and unerring. Every time he pulls the trigger, a raider goes down. I’ve never encountered a better shot, barring my Samos cousins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I used to be one of the best snipers in the Nortan army,” Davidson says as I wave away another round of bullets. “Not proud of it, but the skill does come in handy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A greeny thrusts out her arms, and a tree erupts from the ground a hair from my face. Vines snake from the branches, as fast and agile as a pit viper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a burst of concentration, I rip a gun out of a raider’s hand, turning it into a dual set of blades. The vines rip at my skin and hair, regrowing as soon as I cut them. It feels like I’m fighting an entire forest. Everywhere I turn, there’s another one, writhing in my vision until all I see is a blanket of verdant green. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gunshot rings out, and the vines wilt instantly without the power of a greenwarden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Davidson says. The raider topples over behind him, dead before she hits the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s plenty to go around,” I point out, sidestepping the tree. “As I recall, you seem to be the one that keeps saving my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His easy manner disappears, and he looks me square in the eyes. “I consider that a duty, Evangeline. That’s why I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warmth blooms in my chest like a firework. Over the years, I’d worked closely enough with the premier to know that he’s fiercely protective of the people he loves. I’d just never stopped to consider that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> had somehow become one of those people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last two raiders back into the cover of a pine tree. One is a stoneskin, pebbles and earth sloughing off her rocky flesh. The other is a blood healer, probably a member of the former House Blonos. His face is unnaturally smooth, skin stretched tightly around his skull like a morph suit. I’ve never fought a Blonos son before, and Lord Arven didn’t have much to say about them in Theory. I wonder how hard they are to kill—or </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>they can be killed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before either of us can attack, the Nortans take us by surprise, and they both lunge at Davidson—the weaker target, with his abilities exhausted. He fires reflexively, taking the stoneskin in the shoulder, but she brushes it off with a snarl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blonos is on him before he can do anything else, landing a kick to the gut. The premier gasps, doubling over. The gun clatters from his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling that erupts in the pit of my stomach is similar to my reaction at seeing Tolly in danger. Red-hot anger surges in me like a torrent, and I unleash the energy with a shout. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guns and bullets shred under my wrath like paper. With another burst of willpower, I create a whirlwind of shrapnel, sending it swirling around the Nortans in gales of copper, gusts of steel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stoneskin falls under my onslaught, bleeding from countless wounds, dozens of projectiles buried like splinters in her gray skin. I swallow a bolt of nausea and look away. It’s not the worst way I’ve killed someone, but it’s pretty close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blonos heals just as quickly as he bleeds. A million cuts open on his too-perfect skin, here one second and gone the next. He curls his lip, utterly unaffected by the maelstrom. “Is that the worst you can do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sneer in response, but I can feel my energy waning already. A metal tornado is not sustainable for long periods of time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue energy flickers suddenly between Davidson’s hands. It’s weak, a shadow of his usual power, but it’s definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Then it flickers one last time and disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blonos turns to him, his expression still dripping with contempt. The last cuts on his face close over as my whirlwind slows and stops, metal projectiles dropping harmlessly to the ground. “My, how the mighty have fallen. Is this what Montfort is? Runaway Silver daughters and–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t get any further before I spear him in the chest. The lance goes through him like a knife through butter, in and out before he can blink. It’s a clean shot to the heart—one of the only ways to kill a blood healer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of me thinks of Corvium, of how my brother killed Mare’s the same exact way. Some scars never fade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blonos falls slowly, as if through water. His frame seems to shrivel as his skin wrinkles and his hair turns gray, decades of anti-aging reversed in a single second. When his body finally hits the earth, it is surprisingly quiet, even somber. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that follows is almost deafening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over. We’re alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I take a deep breath, the first in what feels like hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a time today when I thought that I wouldn’t be going home to Elane. That perhaps my intended fate was inescapable, and I would end up tethered to a throne after all. Relief washes over me—waves and waves of it, cold and sweet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for showing up,” I manage to say, turning to Davidson. “And for that last distraction.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Least I could do.” He frowns at the back of his hands. The tiny shield flickers more violently between them before blinking out again. “I pushed myself a little hard with the bison.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The other option would’ve been dying, if you prefer that,” I remind him. “Now, let’s head back, before Elane and Carmadon go–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hair on the back of my neck prickles. A sixth sense, honed over years of arena battles and courtly intrigue, tells me to stop. Something is wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement—a shadow ghosting from the trees—and a glint of white as the sun flashes off her teeth, bared in a triumphant smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tana Iral draws a dagger from her belt and throws, moving so fast my eyes can’t follow her movement. But I was trained in a hard school, trained to be faster than even the silks of House Iral. I barely blink as I push outwards with my ability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve done this so many times that I see it in my head without even trying. The tiny resistance as I stop the blade in midair and turn it back. The shocked look on Iral’s face as her own knife sinks into her chest and she crumples to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that isn’t what happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>happens. My ability meets nothing, and the blade keeps coming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time hangs suspended—half a second stretching for an eternity—as I freeze, too surprised to react. I don’t understand. This isn’t physically possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunlight gleams through the dagger: not off, </span>
  <em>
    <span>through, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I want to scream. Tana’s wolfish smile makes sense now. The dagger is glass. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mind flashes to Elane, Ptolemus, Carm and Davidson, even Mare and Cal—everyone I thought I would have more time with. Everyone I thought I could make amends with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the moment ends, the blip in time brushed over. Someone—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Davidson</span>
  </em>
  <span>—shoves me hard to the side, out of the way of impending doom. I hit the dirt and roll, springing to my feet in anticipation of a fight, but Tana has disappeared into the gathering darkness. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Coward. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for the save,” I gasp, turning to him. “I thought I was–” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart stutters midbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Davidson staggers, clutching his stomach. Scarlet seeps through his fingers, as red and inexorable as the dawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed me out of the way and took the knife himself. Shielding me even without his ability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” I run to him, lowering him to the ground as his knees buckle and his legs give out. “No, no, no.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is not happening. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot</span>
  </em>
  <span> be happening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get you to Carmadon,” I hear myself saying. “We’ll find a medic. Skin healers—they can fix this. They can fix anything. Do you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in this state, his composure doesn’t fail. When he speaks, his voice is calm and measured. “Yes, Evangeline… I hear you.” For a second, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that everything is alright; that I am nineteen again, and the premier is chiding me for an impulsive decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I have to open them again eventually, and I come face-to-face with cold reality—Davidson slumped on the ground, crimson still seeping through his shirt. My hands curl uselessly at my sides. I was raised on a battlefield with skin healers in the wings, ready to treat anything. I don’t know what to do in this situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe there’s nothing I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> do, and that’s the worst truth of all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The long shadows and mountain air chill me to the bone as I kneel at his side, my knees digging into the freezing earth, but I refuse to move. “They—they can fix anything,” I repeat again, robotically, but this time even I can hear the denial in my voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Davidson shakes his head, his gold eyes piercing me to the bone. “Not… this,” he rasps, and blood flecks his lips. I don’t want to think about the way the glass probably shattered and cut up his insides. “There’s no way back, Evangeline.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My brain refuses to comprehend his words. Dane Davidson was—no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>—a visionary, rebel, fighter, and leader. A man who escaped from Norta’s Silver boot to crush kingdoms to dust. He couldn’t possibly be brought low by an assassin’s dagger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t possibly be brought low saving </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not worth that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grips my hand with surprising strength. His breaths come shallower, and his chest rattles as he fights for life. Despite my denials, I’ve seen enough battlefield deaths to know what will happen next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inevitable.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I swallow, surprised to feel tears streaking down my face. Tears I never wept after the death of my father, five years ago on that cursed bridge in Archeon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I cry them now. Davidson was the father of a country, an entire dream made reality. And more than that, he gave me advice, mentorship, a new life in Montfort. He was more of a father to me than the man who married my mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His life prevented the death of millions, and now, because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s about to end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” I find myself asking. “Why did you just… trade your life for mine?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are worth it—worth dying for. We have more important things… to talk about.” He clutches at the collar of his shirt with trembling fingers, and for a second I think he’s struggling for air. Then Davidson produces a thin chain, and my breath catches when I see what’s on the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ring glints in the waning sunlight, still untarnished after decades. It is identical to the one his husband wears: silver for the color of Carm’s blood, gold for Davidson’s burning gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give this to Carmadon,” the premier whispers, Something in my chest shatters at the way he says his husband’s name, the way he pores slowly over each syllable. Carmadon. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Car-ma-don, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like he doesn’t want to let it go. “Tell him I am sorry. He—he will understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can only find it in me to nod wordlessly. My vision blurs as Davidson’s fingers slacken, still holding the ring, clasping it to his chest as it rises and falls. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>am sorry,” I manage to stutter. “I should’ve done more—should’ve—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rage and guilt destroy lives brighter than yours,” he interrupts with surprising force, suddenly gripping my fingers. His hands are callused, still warm, and I take this feeling, this moment, and bury it deep in my chest. Willing myself to never forget it. “You hold your emotions too tight, Evangeline. Please, don’t let this be the case with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still giving advice, still trying to better someone else,” I say quietly, but I know he’s right. Ice-cold anger already whispers through my veins, trying to eclipse the sorrow in my heart. Anger at Iral, anger at the Silver Secession, anger at myself most of all. “Some things never change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is getting softer, but it is no less assured. I should’ve known a flame like Davidson’s would burn until the end. “That is who I always have been. My entire life. I’m… content with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is good,” I whisper. Every other word that has ever existed fails me. They don’t come close to describing the gravity of this moment. There’s nothing else to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But now,” Davidson breathes, “I am done. But you—” He squeezes my hand again, weakly, and with an awful finality—“carry on. Have strength, Evangeline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rise and fall of his chest slows and stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I kneel there, my hands still gripping his, my chest hollowed of all emotion as I keep vigil in the bitter cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun dips below the mountains, gold fading to scarlet fading to deep blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do not move again until the scarlet returns in the east.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A few short years ago, I would have run like a coward. The urge to disappear into the early morning mist and climb into the mountains still pounds through me with every heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I don’t, because I at least owe him this fucking much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The convoy rolls to a stop on the Hawkway, two armored transports and a funeral hearse, blacker than the night sky. Bile rises in my throat every time I look at it, so I don’t. I remain kneeling next to him, my eyes fixed resolutely on the ground. Even my pride can’t save me from the shame and rage rolling in my chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around six this morning, I finally picked up a signal on my broadcaster. I sent a message to the estate, and then I pitched the fucking thing off the cliff. It didn’t save Davidson, and I hate it for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hate myself for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door to one of the transports opens, and I don’t have to look to see who it is. The wedding band on his left hand is indication enough. Silver and gold, intertwined forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think of the matching ring squeezed in my own hand, leaving angry red imprints in my palm. Tears burn the back of my eyes, hot and stinging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking them away, I stand to face the man I failed most in the entire world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carmadon is a greenwarden made of stone, the lines of his face chiseled with pain. His white suit is rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. My heart twists even tighter at the thought of him falling asleep last night, waiting for a husband who would never come home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evangeline,” he whispers. His gaze flickers from Davidson to me and back again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carmadon, I’m so sorry.” I hate myself for the empty condolence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the most useless thought in the world to a grieving person. But, like before, my words fail me. There’s nothing to say. Nothing I can do to alleviate the pain that I caused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carm bows his head, the smallest of movements. “Could you—could you give me a moment?” he asks quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” My mouth is so dry that the words barely make it past my lips. I leave too quickly, trying to run from the grief. No matter what I do, I won’t be able to get away from it fast enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elane waits for me by the convoy, the platinum engagement ring sparking on her finger like a firework. She wants me to know she’s there, giving me the space to run again if I need to. It’s a kindness I don’t deserve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>are alive,” is the first thing she says to me. Her eyes linger on my dirty knees, my torn uniform, the tear streaks down my face. She brushes her thumbs over my cheeks. “I will—” The tiniest crack appears in her voice—“I will be eternally grateful for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve any of it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>My first instinct is to shut myself away, to let my walls come up and hide me until I’m ready. But that won’t help me or anyone else. With a monumental effort, I make myself talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If not for me,” I whisper harshly, my eyes landing everywhere but her face, “he would be alive right now.” My shoulders shake as a wave of emotion sweeps over me, a sea of feelings I know well. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Self-hatred. Denial. Grief. Rage. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Elane’s gaze meets mine, and it’s like staring into a mirror to my own soul. “You think I don’t blame myself?” she asks. “He may have died saving you, Eve, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one that asked him to go.” She’s crying now, trembling against me, and I fold her into my arms and try to wish away all her pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>your damn fault.” I say it over and over again, like a mantra. Like a prayer.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evangeline, I</span>
  <em>
    <span> sent him to his death.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Her voice shatters on the last word. “And I just—I just remember watching him leave, and praying you both would come back safe, but...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” I whisper again, sounding like a broken record. My eyes are fixed on Carmadon, kneeling beside his husband, his shoulders shaking. On Elane in my arms, her tears sliding beneath wet eyelashes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look what you did, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the entire scene screams. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look what you did, you stupid, stupid girl. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not wrong—it </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>Elane’s fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My head spins as I run, and run, and run. Evergreens cast lengthening shadows over the track, and all I can think about is that at this time yesterday, Davidson was still alive. He’s been gone for almost a full day now, but the earth keeps spinning despite his absence. Even though it feels as if it should have stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world ended when Dane Davidson breathed his last, but still the sun rises and sets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I see him every time I blink. In those split seconds behind my closed eyelids, blood soaks through his shirt, turning his uniform the color of the dawn. His fingers clutch the silver chain at his neck, lifting the ring to the waning light. The rise and fall of his chest slows. And stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I guess I still </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>a fucking coward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carmadon made a broadcast at noon today, and now the entire continent knows how and why the premier of Montfort met his end. Following the broadcast was a state funeral. I didn’t attend. I didn’t watch. How could I, given that his death was practically my fault?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one has seen Carm for the rest of the day, and the estate is lifeless without his presence. The entire place is wilting: flowers turn brown on the balconies, trees shed their leaves, fruit shrivels and discolors. All of nature grieves for his loss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I were a better person and friend, I would go after him. I owed him more than words could describe—and I repaid the debt by letting his husband die. </span>
  <span>But I can’t find it in me to face his grief again. I don’t want to look into his eyes and see condemnation, conscious or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elane is better than I am. She was good enough to stand beside Carmadon during the broadcast and the service, the former queen of the Rift giving her support for the world to see. I was still here, punching heavy things and crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one has tried to seek me out yet, giving me space to vent. But soon, I’ll have to grow up and head inside to face the consequences of my actions. Soon, I’ll have to talk one-on-one with Carmadon. If not now, then inevitably later. After all, I was the last person to see his husband alive; I was the person that </span>
  <em>
    <span>caused </span>
  </em>
  <span>his death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I still have his wedding band on a chain around my neck, resting near my heart. It thuds against my chest as I run, in time with my footsteps on the track. I need to give it to Carm, but I haven’t found the right words to say for when I do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps there </span>
  <em>
    <span>aren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>any right words for this situation. Perhaps some are just less wrong than others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone with my thoughts, it’s easy for me to sense the intruder when he comes. Metal rings out in my perception: his uniform is cut with chrome lining, and a silver ring adorns his left hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s only one person that could be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slow to a walk as he nears the track. My heartbeat pounds in my chest, and I rest my hands on my knees as I try to recover enough to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tolly,” I say, and my voice hitches on that one word. “I–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sweeps me into a hug before I can get any further. “Little sister,” he says, his arms wrapped around me. “We’ve been worried. You have to stop scaring us like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lean into his chest, feeling the warmth radiate from his torso. My brother is not a touchy-feely person. Moments of contact like these are rare, so I cherish them all the more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not little,” is all I can think to say, but saying that only makes me feel more like a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ptolemus smiles as he pulls away. “Evie, I’m a head taller than you and twice as wide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up,” I say. It comes out with more venom than I intend, and I flinch at the hardness in my own voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of looking hurt, my brother examines me closer, his eyes searching. “Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not fucking alright.” Angry tears suddenly well up in my eyes again. “But the person you should be asking that question is Carmadon. Not me.” I swipe at my nose with the sleeve of my training suit. The skin there is already raw and red from repeating the action too many times today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of me feels ashamed at breaking down to Tolly. Neither of us cried much as kids, and it’s not like we’re strangers to death. But Davidson’s death feels like no other. My brain doesn’t know what to do with it, swinging wildly between utter denial and complete breakdown. It’s too big to process. Too </span>
  <em>
    <span>unreal </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have possibly happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Evangeline,” he whispers, pulling me close again. “But in the meantime, it’s okay to not be okay. Grief isn’t a contest. It’s not something you deserve or don’t deserve to feel. You are allowed to be sad and angry even if you weren’t hurt the </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you become a therapist?” I snap, and immediately regret it. Everything is coming out harsher than I want it to. It’s like I can do nothing but push away the people I love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, my brother seems to have endless reservoirs of patience today. I hate that it probably comes from a well of sympathy I don’t deserve. “I’m married to a healer,” Ptolemus says, and I feel his smile as an infinitesimal tightening of his stomach. “It comes with the territory. And right now, all my therapist instincts are telling me to get you inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine out here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can practically see your fingers turning purple.” He grabs my hand and turns it over to examine. “How long have you been out here, and when was the last time you ate?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—” I glance up at the sky. The sun is touching the horizon now, the sky bleeding red and violet. I’ve been here since mid-morning, but I’m not about to tell him that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tolly scowls at me. My silence is as good as a confession for him. “That’s it. You need to come inside. You’ll catch your death out here.” When I still say nothing, he adds, “Don’t make me carry you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have at least enough pride left to walk on my own two feet, so I follow him grudgingly back to the estate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soles of my feet scrape against the cobblestone path. The estate looms higher above me with each step as I trail behind Tolly, unwilling to go in. The lower levels have been teeming with government officials all day, and socializing—or worse, accepting condolences—is the last thing I want to do right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ptolemus doesn’t lead me through the entrance hall. We slip in through a side door, and he steers me down a hallway towards the kitchens. I stop short as something sparks in my perception, a feeling I would know anywhere. <em>Elane’s ring</em>. She’s here too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Here, I realize as I look around the empty kitchen, but invisible.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, love,” I say to the seemingly deserted room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response, but I wasn’t expecting one. Elane will reappear when she’s ready, and not a moment before. We have different ways of handling our emotions. I rage and vent, not caring who hears me. She vanishes altogether to cope out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I help myself to a bowl of blackberries and a platter of cheese and crackers on one of the counters, suddenly ravenous. Tolly takes a seat next to me, leaving the one across from me for Elane. We both jump as her chair suddenly moves, scraping against the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” She flashes back into view as she sits, still wearing her black gown from the funeral, and I think idly of her old Haven colors. Her red hair hangs limply against her shoulders, its usual luster gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a pang, I realize she’s been grieving as well, but unlike me, Elane hates to be alone. I practically abandoned her for half the day, just when she needed me most. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Selfish. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” I say first. “I should’ve checked in on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it: I had Lyrisa. I know you needed space.” To my relief, she smiles, and the expression reaches her eyes. “How are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I brace myself against another wave of emotion. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wave </span>
  </em>
  <span>is inaccurate at this point—it’s like a void that opens up inside me, draining me of everything else. “It still feels like a nightmare,” I admit quietly. “Like it couldn’t have actually…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Elane whispers. “Do you need to talk about it right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, I shake my head. The movement makes me dizzy, and I have to grab the counter to steady myself. Eating real food for the first time today has made me realize how hungry and thirsty I am. I don’t want to—and probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>—do anything but change and go to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we can talk about other things.” She reaches for my hand across the countertop, shivering slightly as she takes it in both of her own. “My god, you’re freezing.” Elane looks askance at me before leaning down to breathe warm air on our conjoined hands. “You’ve practically become a shiver, Evangeline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m well aware,” I say. Her touch feels feverish to me, but that’s probably because my skin is ice cold. Experimentally, I try to wiggle my fingers individually of one another. It feels like they’re made of wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elane laughs and gently presses a kiss to each one of my knuckles, her mouth warm against my skin. “Relearning basic motor control, are we? I can help you with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get a room.” Tolly covers his eyes, feigning disgust at us both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I leer back at him. “Like you and Wren are any better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a rude gesture and plucks a blackberry from my bowl. I snatch it from his hand and pop it into my own mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels good, this comfortable, easy rhythm between the three of us. It feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it isn’t the same</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s impossible to ignore the void inside me, the grief that hangs over all of us, threatening to pop this fragile bubble of content. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because things aren’t normal any more. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Davidson is gone. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And he isn’t coming back. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a moment the next morning when I wake up and wonder about the heavy feeling sitting on my chest like a Prairie bison. Pale light streams through the windows that Elane must’ve forgotten to darken last night. Our suite seems so serene, so <em> ordinary</em>, that for a second I forget anything is wrong at all. </p><p>The next moment, everything comes crashing down again like a thunderbolt. I spot my training suit, balled up in a corner next to my torn and bloodied uniform, and the unwelcome feelings come flooding back. I scrunch my eyes up and burrow underneath the blankets again, trying to block away the entire world. </p><p>It’s not enough. It’s never enough. </p><p>He’s dead. Davidson’s dead, and it’s my fault, and nothing will bring him back—<em>nothing.  </em></p><p>Next to me, Elane shifts sleepily, her hair fanning out on the pillow and getting in my face. I brush it aside and roll out of bed, trying not to wake her, and head to the bathroom to face my emotions in private.</p><p>The ring sits on the marble countertop next to the sink—I put it there yesterday before taking a shower. I stop short at the sight of it, anger and self-pity pounding in my chest. Does everything have to be a reminder of him?</p><p>It occurs to me that there will only be more memories and reminders, that I’ll feel like this until the emotions dull and I start to forget. The very thought of that is unfathomable to me—I can’t imagine feeling any other way than this. </p><p>To forget someone like Dane Davidson seems an impossibility and a desecration.</p><p>I dress slowly, numbing my mind of everything but what I have to do today. Eat breakfast<em>. </em>Possibly talk to Carmadon. And… attend the private funeral this afternoon.</p><p>Thinking about the private service makes me want to throw up. I thought about skipping again, but I can’t miss a last chance to say goodbye. And I can’t leave Elane alone again. </p><p>She’s awake by the time I emerge from the bathroom, the ring on its chain around my neck. “Morning, Eve,” she says.</p><p>I cross the room in three quick strides and sit beside her on the bed, resting my head on her shoulder. “Good morning, love.” </p><p>The weight of the last two days hangs between us, so palpable I almost feel it on my skin. But we made an unspoken promise last night in the kitchens, and yesterday morning on the cliffs, and the day we put rings on each other’s fingers, and every minute before, between, and after. <em> We get through this together</em>. </p><p>“So. Are you going to talk to Carmadon today?” Elane asks after a moment, her fingers tracing the chain around my neck.</p><p>Just the mention of his name makes my stomach twist with guilt. “I—I’m not sure.”</p><p>“Evangeline,” she says, pulling away slightly to look me in the eyes. She knows better than anyone my history of running away.  “It’s <em> Carm. </em>He isn’t a stranger.”</p><p>“I know, but…” My mind instantly comes up with a hundred reasons to avoid him—he’s a busy person; he should to grieve in peace; he shouldn’t have to deal with me today, of all days. </p><p>Elane’s eyes are still fixed on mine. “And,” she says firmly, “I think it would do you both a world of good.” </p><p>I drop my gaze. Deep down, I know she’s right. I will have to face Carmadon eventually. </p><p>It would be kinder to us both to do it sooner rather than later.</p><p>~~~</p><p>I find him in the gardens, a world apart from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the estate.</p><p>Brown leaves crunch loudly underfoot, deafening in the silence. Another pang of grief hits me as I look at the trees they left bare. Usually, this garden is quietly and persistently alive, verdant green and thriving. Today, it is more yellow than anything, and the silence reminds me of a graveyard. </p><p>Carmadon is at the far end of the garden, kneeling next to a bush, his head bent. He isn’t wearing his usual white, but he isn’t wearing black, either. His suit today is green, the color of life and regrowth.</p><p>Under his careful touch, new shoots peek out from each stem. It’s like watching a time-lapse of a sprouting plant, watching it grow from bud to leaf to unfurling flowers with pale pink petals before my eyes. I’m suddenly reminded of a line Mare was fond of: <em> We destroy, but we also rebuild.  </em></p><p>Satisfied, Carm rises to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Angie,” he says, turning around. His voice is tired, but the shattered edges from two days ago seem smoother. “I thought that would be you.”</p><p>“Yes,” I respond, swallowing. My mouth is bone dry, and despite the fact that I’ve known Carmadon for five years, I don’t know what to say. </p><p>“Good. I was hoping it wouldn’t be another politician trying to offer me their condolences. Please, and I say this from the bottom of my heart, never go into politics.” A ghost of his usual joking manner lingers in the words.</p><p>“I certainly will not, but I can’t speak for Tolly.” I try to match the lightness in his tone. “He may have ambitions for government. I can’t imagine why.” </p><p>Carmadon shrugs his shoulders slightly. “Some people were born to be leaders,” he says, and I know he isn’t just talking about my brother. </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” I say, thinking of the man he lost. Because as close as I was to Davidson, Carmadon knew him ten times longer. A hundred times better. </p><p>The corner of his mouth lifts. “I know you, Evangeline. Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”</p><p>“I can’t help it,” I whisper, my eyes trained resolutely on the flowering bush behind him. “Because it <em> was </em>my fault, and you should hate me for it. But you don’t.” The goodness of some people on this earth still astounds me, even if I’ve known them for what feels like a lifetime. </p><p>“Hate you? I could never,” says Carmadon. “It was not your fault that Iral threw that dagger. It was hers, and the thoughts of thousands like her that enable the Silver Secession.” </p><p>“But I was the one they came for. I radioed for help. And I was the person he took the knife for. It should have been me.”</p><p>“Evangeline.” The sudden steel in his voice shocks me into looking up. “If there’s anything I know about my husband, it’s that his choices were <em> always </em> his own.</p><p>“He <em> chose </em>to be the one to go to you. He knew the risks, just like the rest of us. And when the time came—” Carmadon’s voice catches a little, but it’s no less intense for it—“he chose to save you instead of himself. He knew exactly what he was doing.”</p><p>“Why?” The word slips out of my mouth, barely more than a breath. </p><p>Carmadon looks me straight in the eyes. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same for Ptolemus. For Elane, or Lyrisa, or even Cal and Miss Barrow. Simply put, Evangeline, he cared enough. He cared enough about you to take that dagger.”</p><p>My eyes burn. I close my eyes, and the tears start coming. But for the first time in two days, I’m not angry or ashamed. I simply have too much emotion to continue on. </p><p>
  <em> He cared.</em>
</p><p>Two words laden with too much meaning for me to unravel. </p><p>My fingers tremble slightly as I unclasp the chain around my neck. “He wanted me to give you this,” I say quietly. “He said—he said that he was sorry, but that you would understand.”</p><p>There’s a long pause in which I think Carmadon might start crying too. He takes the necklace from me, holding it like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. Wordlessly, he clasps it around his own neck, tucking the ring gently beneath his shirt. “I do understand,” he says softly. “It doesn’t make this any easier, but I understand.”</p><p>He sighs, taking a seat on a nearby bench, and gestures for me to sit next to him. I do, and the tiny movement makes my sore muscles cry in protest. We sit in silence for a moment, and I study Carm out of the corner of my eye. </p><p>His gaze is elsewhere, sad but steady. He reminds me of Elane, always ready to be gentle to a world that sometimes is nothing but cruel. They have a strength far beyond what I know. </p><p>Carmadon starts to talk, his eyes still far away. “I knew Dane for twenty-eight years. I was lucky enough to be his husband for twenty-five of those. We saw the fall of five different kingdoms, the end of three wars, and the rise of two democratic nations together. That’s enough for a lifetime. For a dozen lifetimes, really.  </p><p>“I think in the end, he was content to let that be it. We had almost three decades together—which is longer than you’ve been alive,” he says. “When you think about it that way: you have your whole life left. We’ve lived ours about as fully as we possibly could.”</p><p>“I just wish he hadn’t had to do it,” I murmur. “It’s just difficult to imagine a life without him.” </p><p>Carmadon smiles sadly. “I used to think that being with Dane made me stronger, you know,” he says. “But now, I don’t think it was the <em> being</em>, Evangeline. It is the privilege of knowing and having loved a person that strengthens us. And that doesn’t stop, even though he’s gone. We are stronger for having known him.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sky is a cloudless blue so bright it hurts to look at, but the ache in my eyes is matched only by the pain in my heart. The afternoon turned out to be bright and clear, but brisk enough that I huddle closer to Elane beside me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stand on a natural terrace outside the estate. Carmadon looks after it, but he mostly lets the native plants grow as they like: bowers of blue columbine, clumps of wild rose, stands of goldenrod. It is a striking difference from his pruned rosebushes and orderly vegetable gardens, but I see more of Carm’s personality here. The goldenrod is the color of his husband’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From here, we have a view of all of Ascendant, a city of lights, of freedom, and of hope. A city that would not exist at all without Davidson. Far below us, sunlight glints off the lake, and I can just make out the construction site beside it: a marble obelisk, a memorial to his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gives me peace to know that generations later, Davidson’s name will live on. Eternal in spirit if not in flesh. How many Silver nobles of Old Norta, with all their posturing and petty squabbles, could claim the same? For all their strength and power, they were never truly great as he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The state funeral yesterday was massive, the broadcast already the most viewed in history. But the private service is tiny, a few dozen at most, the way Davidson would have wanted it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barrow and Calore are among those present, as well as Farley, who just landed in Montfort at noon. Tolly is as far from her as he can get, not wanting to bring more grief to this day. To his left, Wren is in conversation with Julian Jacos and Sara Skonos, who lean against each other, hands intertwined. Mare looks on at them fondly. I notice her eyes are rimmed in red—she’s been crying, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, Carmadon is on my right, his face sad but serene. In his hands is a lacquered box of maple wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lump rises in my throat every time I look at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, this all feels real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carm clears his throat, and what chatter there is instantly fades away. “It means a lot that you all are here—it really does,” he says quietly. “This will be hard for all of us, but knowing you support us—that makes it easier. I think I’ve said all that—that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> say, but does anyone have a few words they want to share?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My chest is so tight I feel like I might explode, but my voice is calm enough when I speak. “I would like to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to me, a glimmer of some emotion in his eyes I can’t quite identify. “Go on, Evangeline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turns to me, and my mind instantly goes blank, even though I rehearsed a speech this morning. Nothing I say could come close to capturing the greatness of who Davidson was. And no words could possibly describe the magnitude of his loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your time,” Elane says, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back, grateful for the support. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shut my eyes briefly, and memories from the last five years—the best in my life—flash through my mind. A particular one drifts to the surface, blossoming like ink droplets through water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is twilight, and I walk on the premier’s arm up the steps towards the estate. His gold eyes flash suddenly, temper and pity and pride in one glance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My husband, Carmadon, has been busy enough preparing for you all. Another small thing we </span>
  </em>
  <span>allow </span>
  <em>
    <span>here in Montfort, Princess Evangeline. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He drops my arm and forges ahead as my eyes burn with sudden tears. Even in the memory, I feel the flare of tempered hope like a brand, leaving me breathless, my heartbeat thundering. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My husband. My </span>
  </em>
  <span>husband. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In that moment, a thousand doors opened up for me. Davidson showed me a future I never dreamed I could have, and a way to achieve it. He managed to create hope where none should have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I open my eyes, knowing what tribute I want to give. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dane Davidson was one of the best people I’ve ever met.” I fight to keep my emotions under control, my expression in check. “He helped everyone and anyone he could. Regardless of who they were. Regardless of the cost to himself. Even—even until the very end.” My voice catches as I remember what he said to me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You are worth it. Worth dying for.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was an inspiration—a far better one than my own parents were. I can’t imagine the person I would be without him.” The truth of the statement strikes me to the bone. Father would have let me die in a heartbeat to save his own skin. Davidson made the opposite choice, and he did it without hesitating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear, hear,” Farley deadpans, but I don’t have it in me to glare at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elane says quietly, “Neither could I, to be honest. He was the best mentor I could have asked for. I just can’t—I still can’t believe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can hear the guilt in her voice, mirroring my own. We both still blame ourselves, but it is a start, at least, to be able to celebrate his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Cal adds. “Davidson was everything a leader should be, and a far better one than the king I would have made.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a brilliant scholar as well.” Julian, of course, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his robe. I wonder if he had anyone to discuss his studies with before he met the premier, and my throat tightens at the thought that he might be alone with only his books again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A freedom fighter, too,” Farley says. Her blue eyes sparkle fiercely and the lines of her face are rigid, like she’s holding back tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. He cared enough to fight for us, when no one else would,” Mare says quietly, and I can’t help but think that out of everyone here, she and Davidson are the most similar. Two Nortan firebrands who rose from nothing to become leaders of a rebellion. “For </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It goes round and round, stories of all the lives Davidson touched coming to the surface. Most of his aides—including Lyrisa—are Silver or Ardent, given new lives after he took them in. We all wondered once if there would be strings attached, hidden conditions we wouldn’t see until it was too late. But the only one was to protect Montfort as it protected us. As Davidson protected it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a single one of us isn’t crying by the time it ends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of them are tears of loss and anger and guilt, but I feel a strange kind of release as well. A sort of catharsis from knowing that this too shall pass, that there is light in even the darkest of our days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when everyone has spoken, Carmadon steps forward, lifting the lid of the box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle breeze picks up as he sprinkles his husband’s ashes among the goldenrod flowers. They settle on the earth as gently as fresh fallen snow, at rest finally in the blossoms of blue and gold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, we are but dust and shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> A lone sprout pokes out from the flowerbeds, fresh and green, the color of new life. It grows before my eyes: ten inches, then ten feet. Branches unfurl from it, elegant and strong, and within seconds, a tree stands before us, as striking as if it had been here for fifty years. Beside me, Elane releases a tiny gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quaking aspen,” Carmadon says softly. I have to take a step back, awestruck by what he has created. Silver bark lances into the sky, straight and tall. The branches are a cascade of gold, gold as the color of Davidson’s eyes. Leaves spiral gently skywards with each gust of wind, floating yellow stars against a bright blue sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carm leans forward and loops the chain of his husband’s wedding band on the lowest hanging branch. He brushes his lips against it, and I think I hear him whisper a good-bye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The aspen waves ever so slightly, as if in farewell, as if in tribute to the ashes at its roots that will help it grow. Out of death, a new life created. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We destroy, but we also rebuild. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A philosophy that Montfort, rising from the ashes of fallen Silver kingdoms, embodies in and of itself. A philosophy that again would not exist without Dane Davidson, who was wise enough to destroy. Who cared enough to rebuild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember my first impression of him, back when I was the daughter of a king. An impassive man, a mystery. I spent countless negotiations wondering how someone could hide a temper so well. How a man could truly not wish for a throne and be completely immune to the lure of a crown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then I saw him face down roomfuls of Silvers that would kill him without blinking. I saw him after he risked his life at Corvium, soaked to the bone and drenched in mud like the rest of us. I saw him stand before an assembly of his own people to petition for aid he never had to give. All of it in support of millions of Reds he would never meet and yet would die for anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dane Davidson was a great man not because he acted for power or influence, but because he cared enough to do something.</span>
</p><p><span>I shut my eyes again, still breathless at the thought that </span><em><span>he is</span></em> <em><span>gone. </span></em></p><p>
  <span>But Carmadon was right. We—the world—are stronger for having had a man like Davidson. And that is a strength that endures, no matter what shall come to pass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We hurt, we die, we grieve. But we have rebuilt and regrown before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, we will heal. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this. this really took a lot out of me. i hope you guys are crying because i am.<br/>@fuvkingmagnus developed a lot of this idea on the RQ net server, so shoutout to them.<br/>we agreed that davidson and carmadon are criminally underrated, but somehow from there we arrived at "hey, wouldn't it be cool if davidson died for evangeline in battle?" and so i wrote it down. and cried a lot. <br/>anyway i hope you guys liked it xoxo&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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